The Multiple Destinations of One Bullet
by AveP
Summary: When Molly has enough of Sherlock and finally stands strong, could it be it? But then the most horrible thing happens... And Sherlock seeks help from his pathologist. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1: THE DAY MOLLY HAD ENOUGH AND SHERLOCK DIDN'T UNDERSTAND

Molly's POV: Thursday, 2 p.m.

I was sitting in the cafeteria, when he arrived, coat swaying behind like a cloak. As always, I felt the butterflies in my stomach. His eyes were shining only when he was on a case. He probably just wanted a body or a limb or an autopsy report for his personal experiments today. It was stupid of me to even begin to hope something else. He never came for anything that didn't involve a cadaver.

When he reached my table, I realized that I was staring in a very embarrassing way and closed my mouth. Why did I turn into this mess every time he was around?

"I need a body," he demanded.

Of course he needed a body, what else. But suddenly came a change.

"What for?" I bursted out, without thinking. I felt the blood rising to my face. _Oh god, he will say now how horrible I look or how my weak mind couldn't possibly understand the depths of his reasons._

But Sherlock only lifted his eyebrow. "An experiment, obviously."

I rolled my eyes, when a sudden rush of boldness took over me. "Yes, Sherlock. That is obvious. I meant what are you going to do with the body."

His eyes looked at me suspiciously, while his mouth curved into a smile. "Your hair looks different today, Molly. It suits you. You look lovely."

_Is he always like this? So disgustingly manipulative and fake._ I then understood that yes, he always was like this. Mean and cruel. It was time for me to wake up from the dream. I knew exactly how my hair looked. It looked the same way as it did yesterday, when he took the bother to tell me that ponytails are dull and I should change my style, because it didn't suit me.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Don't dodge the subject. I'm asking again. What are you going to do with a body?"

Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together and frowned. He didn't like my resistance. Usually I would have just ran along to do what he said, but not anymore. I've had enough of his control over me. _For god's sake! I'm 31 years old! I can do what I want! _

Judging by the look on his face, he was definitely not pleased. He tried to read me, to deduce what made me act this way and I simply looked him coldly in the eye, lifting an eyebrow to emphasize that my question was still unanswered.

His face turned motionless, when his efforts came without results. "What do you think I am going to do with a body, Molly," he replied, all fake gone from his voice, that was now colder than ice, "Eat it? Even you couldn't possibly be that stupid."

"No," I said.

"No what?"

"No, you cannot have a body."

"I didn't ask."

"I know you didn't. That's why you can't have one."

"Fine. Oh Molly! Pretty please! Can I please, please, please have a dead human corpse?" His voice was now soaking with sarcasm.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I say so."

"Do you now?"

"Yes. My morgue. My rules. No, you can't have a body, because I say so."

"Since when is the morgue yours?"

"Since I became the head of the pathology department. Now piss off. I want to finish my lunch."

Now we were staring each other and waiting who would give up sooner. It was not going to be me._ Not anymore, not ever. _And looking into his freezing ocean coloured eyes, I knew I could do it. It was stupid to hold up hopes of him ever liking me, so I should better give up on it and act normal around him. Like me. Like I am around everyone else. A strong independent woman. And no Sherlock Holmes is going to change who I am.

As if he had heard me say it to myself, he gave up and looked away. No goodbye and nothing, he turned around and dashed out of the cafeteria.

_Oh my god! Did I just say 'Piss off' to Sherl- No! Damn it, Molly! Don't start again!_

To be honest... It felt good. Really good. I felt like I was born again. I was happier than I had ever been. Who would have thought? Me, Molly Hooper, a mousy pathologist, had found her inner strength again. _To hell with Sherlock Holmes! I am a single woman in my best years. I'm going out tonight! _

And so I finished my tuna sandwich, picking out my phone and smiling to myself.

Sherlock's POV: Thursday, 7 p.m.

No.

The word haunted me. The word I thought Molly Hooper would never say.

_I don't understand!_ And that fact made me angry. So I ignored John and curled up on the couch, facing the wall with the annoying smiley. _God! Must John breathe so loud? And I'm sure he could turn the newspaper pages more silently!_

"Sherlock..." _Oh god he started to talk as well._

"What?" I growled, still staring the yellow graffiti paint.

"What happened today in Barts?" he asked, putting the newspaper away as I could tell by another sound of paper being tortured.

"What makes you think that something happened?"

"Are we going to go on with these questions? You rushed out of the cafeteria with a face like you'd just seen... I don't know... Mycroft doing belly dance!"

I turned around and jumped up from the sofa, stepping over the coffee-table to sit down in my chair facing John. "That is ridiculous! Don't be stupid!"

"I was just- You know! Never mind!" he said and picked up the stupid paper again. I grabbed it from him and made him look back at me.

"What?" I asked again.

"What what, Sherlock?"

_He is so annoying!_ "Fine! It was Molly!"

John raised his eyebrows (or rather lowered his hair, because that's what it looked like) and smirked knowingly. "Yes, Sherlock, I could guess that already. What did you do this time?"

I laid back in the chair and pulled my knees under my chin. He hated when I did that, because in his words I "look like a bloody child" when I do that. I don't care. "Why do you think it was something that I did?"

John laughed, but then gave me a serious look. "Stop with the questions. I'm asking them now. Now tell me what did you do to Molly?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I just wanted a body and she said no!" I jumped up again and walked around the room, hands tucked safely in the pockets of my robe so I wouldn't hit anything.

"She did?! Good girl!" John grinned.

I glared at him. "Shut up!"

He rolled his eyes and said: "Sherlock, you've been harassing Molly mentally for years. If I was instead of her, I would have punched you in the face long ago. It was time she got over you."

"Got over me? What are you talking about?" Again I was confused. I hated it.

John crossed his arms on his chest. A note that now he was really pissed at me. It seemed that everyone got angry with me today, even if I didn't say anything "insulting", like John referred to my deductions. Rather than looking at him, staring at me from his armchair, I walked to the kitchen.

"Just spit it out, John. What have I done this time?" I asked him, while going through the kitchen cupboards to find anything eatable.

"This time you have to figure it out yourself. You are one of the brightest minds in the world, yet I have never met anyone more stupid than you. Just one hint. Just one. Molly is clever, funny and confident..." I laughed. _In which parallel universe is she confident? And funny? _"... only when you're not around." That made me close my mouth.

I analyzed his words and I barely noticed John grabbing his coat and saying something about a Mary and leaving me to my thoughts. I quit the search, because we had no food and took back my old position on the couch, where I revisited my conversation with Molly.

When I entered the cafeteria and noticed her sitting alone behind a table, with a sandwich and a cup of coffee, wearing a hideous light pink tiny-black-flower-patterned jumpsuit and her usual white labcoat, she was acting as usual. First her cheeks turned red and she started staring at me like a half-minded. Then I demanded a body, to which she wanted to know what for. She seemed to regret her words at once, blushing again.

But then she said no. No. Just one little word. Why did it bother me so much?

Maybe because I have never seen Molly be so confident before. She didn't stutter once. Perhaps John was right. She got over my presence and started acting normal around me. Like she was with everybody else. _But why does it bother me so much?_

_I need a distraction! _"I NEED A CASE!" I shouted to the smiley. The face didn't change.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2: AN UNEXPECTED MEETING AND AN UNWANTED CASE

Molly's POV: Thursday, 8 p.m.

We had agreed to meet in front of the restaurant exactly eight, but I arrived two minutes late. A mistake easily forgiven. Mary and John were already there, standing and waiting for me. As soon as I came out of the cab and John saw me, he came to me, shook my hand and said: "Congratulation!"

Mary smiled and hugged me. "Well done!" she whispered to my ear. I raised my eyebrows. "On what occasion?" I asked.

John laughed. "For finally telling Sherlock to piss off."

"Oh that..." I blushed.

"You should have seen him, when we got home! He practically destroyed his skull." He put his arm around Mary's waist and Mary took my hand. We entered the Italian restaurant, which John had offered out, when I proposed him and Mary to go out together tonight. The place owner, named Angelo, welcomed us cheerily, although he seemed surprised for some reason, while watching John and Mary.

He showed us our seats and gave us the menus. The three of us chatted about everyday life. Under their encouragement I told in detail what had happened today in the cafeteria of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I had a lot of fun and the food was also good. I asked John about the restaurant and he told us the story of his first case with Sherlock and the embarrassing incident with his cane.

It had been a very long time since I was able to relax so much in other people's company. After a while I managed to accidentally drop a spaghetti on my blue dress and had to excuse myself to the toilet. Walking to the other side of the restaurant, I noticed a familiar man with silver hair sitting alone in the bar. _Gregory Lestrade! What is he doing here?_

I pulled myself up on the chair next to him and smiled. "Hello!" I greeted him.

He turned to me and the moment he recognized me, he smiled back. "Molly Hooper, the pathologist. What are you doing here? A date?"

I laughed. "If I was on a date, would I be now here, talking to you? No, I'm here with John and Mary."

He frowned for a moment, trying to remember. "Sorry... Mary who exactly?"

"Mary Morstan. Works with me in Barts." I grabbed a napkin from the counter and started cleaning my dress.

Greg's eyes lightened. "Ah yes! The blond nurse! So her and John Watson then." He sipped his beer.

"Yes. Would you like to join u- Oh!" I had waved toward our table, where the couple had forgotten the food and were busy snogging each other. I giggled. "Maybe it's better if I sit here for a while. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I could use some company anyway."

I smiled warmly to him again. "So, Greg... What brought you here tonight?"

Sherlock's POV: Friday, 11 a.m.

"We're out of milk again, John. Do you even listen to what I'm saying?" I said to him, when he entered the kitchen.

"Do I even liste- Sherlock, I just came home two seconds ago. A proper thing to say is 'Good morning', but it didn't come to your head, did it?" He waved me off and headed up the stairs to his room. "And you're not a child anymore. You can buy the milk yourself," he shouted to my back. I ignored him.

The doorbell rang. A client.

"John!"

"Heard it. Coming."

I ran downstairs and opened the front door.

Woman. Mid-forties. Expensive jewellery and clothes, new. Cheap hair dye and manicure. Bad make-up. Not a journalist, too dull. A secretary. A former secretary. Not working now. Living from a heritage. Enough to buy a Chanel dress, not enough to have a decent lunch for the rest of the week. Conclusion: trying to impress me at all cost.

Idiot.

"Sherlock Holmes, the detective?" she asked, with a too deep voice to be flattering for a woman.

"Yes. Go upstairs," I said holding the door open. John had taught me at least to hear their story before throwing them out.

The woman was slow enough to make me sigh. _Damn John and his manners! A waste of my time_. But Lestrade hadn't phoned either, so it was this or shooting the wall. Or Cluedo, but John had refused to play it with me since the last time. He's so boring.

He made tea in the kitchen, while I showed our "guest" where she could sit down. I sat in my armchair and took in my thinking position. She placed her one leg over the other, a clear sign of her days as a secretary in a low-class company. John finished with the tea and brought it to the living-room on a tray. Three cups of black tea, as usual, when we had a client.

"So... How can we help you?" he asked from her, while she took her first sip of the tea.

The woman put the cup down and started talking: "Well... It was Tuesday afternoon and I was wa-" Here it goes...

I interrupted her. "Spare us of your life story. What do you want?"

She looked startled for a second and John gave me a disapproving glance. I sent him a look that told him to shut up.

"Ehm... Well... In short. I want you to find my dog," she stuttered out.

_She what?_ I stood up and walked in front of her. No traces of a dog in her possession. No traces of a pet in any kind. _Why is she lying?_ Obviously she was lying. What for, was the question? There was something bigger behind it all.

"We'll take the case," I said, surprising John, so he choked on his tea, "leave your contacts to John, so we can keep you in touch of the progress. Have a nice day!"

I smirked to the woman, took my cup and went back to my chair, to go to my mind palace and block out everything else, except the case and my cup of tea.

I entered a wing in my palace named ENEMIES. Over the years I had collected a lot of them. Most were now in prison or even dead, but some still remained. Who would be most likely to set me up now with an obviously ridiculous job offer, that is so ridiculous that I would accept it? Who would make his attentions so obvious?

I browsed through the names in my mind. Some owned a room, some just a folder. I stopped in front of a door with a large sign on it. JUST RELEASED FROM PRISON. _Could it be her? _I opened the door to a quite a small room. The walls were covered with pictures of a woman. A woman with many faces. A woman who could almost always fool me. The same woman who was in my living-room just now. _We meet again... How could I have not recognized you? But then again... You do have very many faces..._ I smiled to myself. _This is going to be entertaining!_

When I left my mind palace, after reminding myself everything I knew about that woman, many hours had passed. I looked at my watch. It was already three.

"John!" I shouted.

"What?" I heard the reply upstairs. Then footsteps on the stairs, when he came down.

I was up in an instant, grabbing him from his shoulders, to make him understand the seriousness of my words. "Did she leave something behind?"

He frowned and pushed my hands off. "Yes, she did. She said the kidnapper of her dog left it behind, but honestly... I'm wondering if she's all right up there..." He pointed first at his head and then at the kitchen table. There was a zip bag with a little bit of dirt inside. I felt another smile reach my face.

"Brilliant! Let's go!" I said, grabbing my coat, scarf and the bag, rushing out. John followed me, still in confusion.

"Where are we going, if I may ask?"

"Barts." I hailed a cab and got in with John, when one pulled over.

"Care to explain?"

"Later."

"Fine."

**Hello there!:):)**

**Thank you for reading my story:):) If you have gotten this far with it, I truly hope you liked it:):) Yes, my native language isn't English and prepositions are a nightmare.**

**This story doesn't take place in the original timeline. Just imagine that Jim Moriarty was never born:P I wanted to experiment a little with this, get to write Sherlock and try to decipher the way his mind works. I will probably change the story in the third form after a while:):) **

**I am writing this with my phone, because I don't have a computer, so ignore the little mistakes:P Uploading with it isn't very comfortable:P:P**

**WARNING: I have never in my life finished a story, but I am making my best effort for it to be the first one:):)**

**This is my first fanfiction written on my own and I could really use some constructive criticism:P Please, please review:):)**

**Love,**

**Ave**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, sweeties!**

**Thank you so much for the reviews and follows and favourites:3 I am rolling on my floor in joyXD**

**I should probably put a disclaimer somewhere here, but I am certain that you are all smart enough to tell that I own nothing except my imagination. :):):)**

CHAPTER 3: WHAT'S THE CASE ABOUT? HER? OR HER? PROBABLY HER...

Molly's POV: Friday, 3 p.m.

Lestrade had phoned me and called me out for lunch. We went to a small cafe near Barts, ordered two salads and cappuccino and just talked. He had gone through a divorce recently and was lonely, so I felt it was my duty to support him, like I did yesterday, by keeping him company. He is a very good friend and I truly enjoy his jokes, I thought, but he is still just a friend. I hoped he would understand.

After lunch he admitted that he had a little work related busyness as well. A new case of homicide, that was very much his division, had come up and he needed the autopsy results. I told him that I hadn't gotten time for it before and I had intended to do it right after lunch. He told me he'd wait, so here he was now. Sitting in my lab. Nice of him to be there. Nobody really visited this place.

I was filling in the papers and he entertained me with a couple of anecdotes he had heard about Sherlock and John. When he had finished one that comprehended John, a stewardess and Sherlock's spectacular skill of disguises, we were both curled up in laughter.

On that very second the famous detective and his assistant entered the room, with an arrogant look on the taller man's face. That of course made us laugh even more, which made Sherlock frown in great displeasure.

"What are you guys laughing about, if I may ask?" said John. He came over, shook Lestrade's hand and greeted me with a hug.

"Oh nothing, nothing! Greg just told me some really good jokes," I answered his question, winking at the detective inspector, who gave me a bright smile in return.

Sherlock, obviously missing attention, rolled his eyes and sighed, taking off his Belstaff coat and the blue scarf.

"Problem?" I asked him, lifting my eyebrow, thanking god that the determination from yesterday hadn't left me.

He answered, voice soaking with sarcasm: "Of course not." He gave me one of his fake smiles and placed his coat on the coat rack.

The little plastic bag in his hands told me clearly that he was here for work. _As long as he's not bossing me around, he can do all that he wants to... Well not all._

I turned back to my papers, while John and Lestrade started talking something about a case somewhere in Dublin. I wasn't really listening and I tuned out in my own thoughts, describing the wounds of the victim in the autopsy report.

Soon enough the resonating baritone bursted my bubble: "Coffee, Molly, if you please."

"Get it yourself," I replied, not lifting my eyes off the papers.

Sherlock's POV: Friday, 3 p.m.

The moment I stepped into the lab and saw Molly laughing, I felt a warm fuzz in my stomach. _I've never heard Molly laugh like this before. _But then I noticed Lestrade with her and the warmness turned into a sharp stitch.

They had had lunch together, as I could see from the fresh coffee stain on Lestrade's sleeve. They had also been together last night, judging by the collar of Molly's shirt. And then was their obvious flirtation. It made me want to vomit.

The stitch grew into an ache. _What is this? _I decided that I didn't like it, so I shut the feeling away to the cellar of my mind palace, where I kept the things I do not talk about. It was safer this way.

"Problem?"

"Of course not," I answered and occupied my microscope, to examine the dirt.

Soon I felt something was missing. Molly's constant gabbling. _I can't work like that._ "Coffee, Molly, if you please." I decided to win her back.

"Get it yourself," she calmly said, not even looking at me and continued to work with her papers.

And then I felt lonely. I watched her chestnut brown hair reflect the light and give her a fascinating glow. She had always had such lovely hair. I shook myself out of it. Fortunately John and Lestrade were deep in their conversation and didn't see my moment of weakness.

But I still felt lonely, when I turned back to the microscope. John had a new girlfriend and this one looked serious, Mrs Hudson was on a holiday on Tenerife and Molly wasn't friendly to me anymore. I felt old even if I was only 30.

_Why am I suddenly thinking about things like that?_ I shut off those thoughts and concentrated on my work. The same old microscope, which's buttons were familiar and reacted to my every touch, gave me the comfort I needed and soon I knew exactly what to do next. I smirked.

"John. Let's go," I said, when I had cleaned up. I pulled on my coat and scarf, hearing a little sigh from John, who said goodbye to Molly and Lestrade. I was about to rush out of the lab door when unexpected words slipped from my mouth: "Goodbye, Molly Hooper."

I managed to see a look of utter surprise on Molly's face, before I disappeared behind the door, followed by John.

When we exited the hospital, John grabbed my arm and pulled me to stop.

"Sherlock. What is going on? Where are we going?"

"The case, John. Do keep up." I hailed a cab.

"The kidnapped dog?" His voice carried a sound of disbelief.

"Obviously a lie. That woman is an actor. A criminal mastermind, who uses her countless disguises to steal, blackmail and trick other people for money. I managed to lock her up about 10 years ago, but she is out now and probably planning a revenge," I answered him, sitting in the cab that had stopped.

John stood outside for a moment, confusion on his face. I lifted my eyebrow.

"Are you coming or not?"

He sat in. "And where are we going, if I may ask?"

"Sussex Gardens."

**It will take more time with the next chapters, because I haven't started writing them yet. Things will get serious and I'm changing the style to third form, so it will be easier for me:) Also I think I will change the rating to M:P:P**

**I would be honored by your reviews:):) Let me know what you think:):):)**

**Love,**

**Ave**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry it took so long. Now things get serious. And I lose my writing skills.**

**If anybody is interested, they can check out a story named 'A Case of Deduction' by ENTWolf:):) We are writing it together (but honestly it's she who is doing the real writing and editing, so all credit goes to her):) And if I say so myself... I really like the story:):) Go check it out!**

CHAPTER 4: CAN THINGS GET ANY WORSE? YES. YES, THEY CAN. MUCH WORSE.

Friday, 7 p.m

Everything was a haze when Sherlock finally opened his eyes. He couldn't see anything, except the outlines of three people standing in the room. He couldn't move himself and he made the simple deduction that he was tied to a chair.

He also felt something warm covering his face. Blood. His blood, he thought as soon as the pain in his forehead hit him.

_How could I have been so stupid?_ Well, now it was too late. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had stepped directly and without hesitation into a trap. They had even known that it was a trap, so what they were feeling now, if you didn't count the bruises and cuts, was quite frankly below any scale.

They were, as Sherlock could see when his eyesight restored, in a storage room of some supermarket. John was right next to him, also tied to a cheap plastic chair. There was a big bruise on his cheek, but nothing too serious to worry about. John was already awake and sent Sherlock a look that said _I blame you for everything, but I'm okay. _

Confirmed that John was alright, Sherlock finally paid attention to the other people in the room. Two men and a woman.

"Ah, Mister Holmes. I see you are conscious. I may have accidentally injected a little too big dose for you," the woman turned to him, with a grin that clearly stated_ Nothing I do is accidental._

Sherlock's reply consisted only of a bitter smile.

He, and unfortunately John too, had never doubted in his cleverness and had marched straight in the address, which Sherlock had 'read out' from the dirt, without any plan whatsoever. They had been attacked the same moment they entered by the four man standing in front of them now. Sherlock, who is a master in three material arts and is able to perform countless others, and John, an ex army doctor with real life battle experience, were beaten unfairly, with a needle in both's arms.

So now, as a result, they were captured.

The woman smiled again. "I feared that getting to you was going to be a much bigger trouble, but it seems that you aren't so smart after all. I'm a little disappointed, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't going to answer. He assured himself that it was because of other reasons, but actually he was just embarrassed of himself.

"I hope you remember me, Mr Holmes."

"Your name is of no importance, Helen. You have too many of them," Sherlock said, voice a little hoarse, and tried unsuccessfully to find a better position, but the ropes cut off his movement.

The woman smoothed casually her black skirt. "My my. Are we on first name basis now,_ Sherlock_?" She walked closer and sent a smile in John's way. John had been watching the short conversation with big eyes. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? I know we've met already, but not officially."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, this is our client Helen Roylott. I'm sure you haven't forgotten her show this morning."

John's eyebrows were reaching his hairline, while his eyes moved back and forth between the two people. "Are you saying that this is the same woman?" he asked unbelievably from Sherlock, who shrugged his shoulders slightly.

Helen laughed wholeheartedly. It wasn't really understandable that they were dealing with the same woman as before. Her hair was now dark brown instead of blond, her posture was straighter, make-up better, clothes fitted perfectly. No trace of that woman from Baker Street.

Her laugh ended with a deep sigh. "You see, Sherlock... I'm not a happy person." She paused expectantly.

"And why is that so?" Sherlock asked, completely uninterested.

"Because you made me sit in a prison for ten years! Ten years! Have you got any idea how long that is?" Helen's eyes where shooting daggers at him and her hands were clenched in fists.

"And what do you expect to achieve by kidnapping me and my... colleague? Do you want to sit in another ten years?"

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm going to have my sweet revenge. Just the thought kept me going all these years. To finally see you suffer." A cold smile crept on her face.

Sherlock snorted. "Cliché. Boring."

A movement in the corner of his eye got his attention. John had been able to carefully release his one arm from the boundaries, but he was facing the three people on his chair and luckily his actions didn't come noticed.

Sherlock took it as a signal. His hands started loosening the ropes around his wrists, while staring into the woman's eyes, distracting her. He felt the ropes give in to the silent struggle and release his hands. Bad knotting. His torso was also tied to the chair, but that wouldn't be a trouble now that he could move his hands.

A plan started formulating in his brain. He broke the eyecontact to Helen and looked around the big storage room. It had high ceilings, some piles of cardboard boxes and an entrance to the right where they were sitting.

He also spared a look to the two men, who were standing behind Helen, dressed from head to toe black. Sherlock also noticed the bumps in their jackets. They were armed. But not experienced.

They were going to do it the easy way.

John, whose both hands were now free too, smiled slightly and said: "Well... It was a pleasure and everything, but how about you two," he nodded towards the men in black, "let us go now. This... is getting quite ridiculous."

"I couldn't agree more, John. I think it's time for us to leave," Sherlock nodded. He wiggled with his shoulders and the ropes came loose, so he was able to stand up. He wiped the dust from his jacket and backside.

John followed his actions and then they were both standing in front of a very startled Helen Roylott.

"Sorry, Mrs Roylott. Better think through your plans next time." John started to move to the exit.

Sherlock smirked and followed him. But they both froze when they heard the click of a gun.

"Ha ha, Mister Holmes. Very funny."

They turned and faced the woman, who was now holding a revolver.

A shot.

"JOHN!"

**Also what I wanted to say was about the title of this story... I started uploading it and then it occurred to me that I don't have a normal title for this story and I just put the first thing that came to my head. Which is the lamest thing ever. And now I just want to change it. Any suggestions? My head is completely blank. :):)**

**Love,**

**Ave**


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5: BURN, BABY, BURN

"JOHN!"

It was a clear shot and the bullet hit the target's heart. His body fell to the floor with a loud thump. A big red stain was forming on his shirt. Sherlock kneeled next to him, frantically trying to stop the bleeding, but it was already too late.

John Hamish Watson was dead.

_No. No! NO! This is not supposed to happen!_

Sherlock had never felt anything like that before. It seemed to him that he was the one lying on the cold concrete floor instead of John. His heart ached too much for him to bare and he couldn't rise. _What is this?_

The sight before him turned all red when he took his eyes off the dead body of his friend and glared at the woman with the gun.

"How does it feel, Sherlock? To be left without everything you care about?" she asked and handed the weapon back to the man behind him.

Sherlock rose slowly and stepped in front of Helen with two long strides. He couldn't care less about the men in black who released the safety locks on their guns and grabbed her neck in a deadly grip.

Sherlock Holmes was a strong man, a very strong man. Nobody usually suspected it when they saw his thin figure, but so it was.

The grip he had on Helen was enough to break her neck at the same time when another shot pierced the air. Bad aim and the bullet only scraped Sherlock's left arm.

Like a wild predator he tossed the body of the woman away and swiftly disarmed both of the men and knocked them unconscious.

He felt something boil inside him. Like a fire in his stomach, slowly consuming the rest of his body.

He was in pain. He needed to get away from this place. He couldn't look at the body of his best friend, lying there, broken. He didn't know where he was going. The only destination in his head was _away._

The familiar streets of London were cold to him. He couldn't feel the safety of the busy streets anymore, so he ran. Ran as fast as he could, just to get _away._ He wouldn't let it come to him, he wouldn't admit it, but he was lost. He couldn't find his pace, his way, not even his mind. He was lost in his own body. He couldn't feel the physical pain of his wounds, because the pain inside his chest was overwhelming.

When he finally couldn't run anymore, he stopped. Through the haze of his dumbed brain, he looked at the street he was on.

It was familiar, but not in the way all the streets in the subconscious map of London he had in his head. This street here had a lavender scent associated to it.

He found himself in front of a red brick apartment building, opening the front door, dragging himself in and up the stairs to the third floor.

A brown door, with a small golden number on it. He had never been here before, but he knew. Of course he knew. He always knew.

_Apparently not, _was the last thing his scattered mind could form, as he collapsed on the door.

Friday, 9 p.m

Molly was spending her evening home, with a nice mug of hot tea and TV. She had snuggled herself in a large brown sweater and fluffy socks. The weather wasn't cold, but Molly liked being warm.

Suddenly she heard a loud thump against her flat door. She put her tea on the small coffe table in front of the television set, rose up and walked to the door, to peek out of peephole.

Her anxiety over an unwelcomed guest disappeared, when she saw the hallway empty. Almost.

A familiar black clad figure was lying in her doorstep.

_Sherlock!_

Molly opened her door quickly and bent down to check if he was okay. There was a wound in his forehead and his dress coat was torn on his left arm, revealing a long, but fortunately not deep, bleeding scratch.

But when Doctor Hooper's fingers carefully examined his head, she could feel waves of heat coming from him. She placed her palm on his face._ He's burning!_

"Sherlock!" she called for him and tried shaking him, but it was useless.

Molly then took his right arm over her neck and dragged him gently in her small flat, kicking the door shut with her foot. She managed with great effort to drag him in her bedroom and place the unconscious man in her bed.

Molly ran to her bathroom to collect her medical kit and to her kitchen to take a bottle of vodka, she kept as an antiseptic. Then she went back to the bedroom and started attending to Sherlock's injuries.

She carefully slipped his hurt arm out of the jacket and finding no other options, as the blood had started drying to his white shirt, she took a pair of scissors from her shelf and cut open the dress shirt's sleeve. She soaked a cotton pad in the alcohol and wiped around the wound, cleaning Sherlock's pale skin from blood.

She took out the bandages from her kit and wrapped it around his arm. After tying it together, she soaked another pad and wiped the blood off his face.

There was a lot of blood there, since even the smallest head wounds bleed a lot, but the actual scratch was very small and Molly sighed thankfully. She placed one band-aid on it.

Sherlock's injuries had been dealt with, but his temperature still stood high. Molly bit her lip nervously. She took out the thermometer and put it carefully in his mouth.

She replaced the the things to their places and returned with a cold wet towel. The temperature on the screen read 38 centigrades.

Molly put the towel on his forehead and tried to wake him again.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, please!" She shook him slightly, but nothing happened. He lay there, with a look of great distress on his face.

She hid her face in her hands. _What happened? What am I going to do?_

Giving a worried look towards the bed, she went to the living room and took her phone. She scrolled through her contacts._ John. He'll know what's going on._

The phone rang, but no one answered. She tried again, but the result was the same. She pressed the bridge of her nose between her index and thumb, sighing again. _Greg._

He answered after the fourth call.

"Hello."

"Greg!" She was relieved.

"Molly! Is something wrong?"

"No- well yes..."

"Molly?" Lestrade sounded worried.

"It's Sherlock."

Pause. "What has that poor bastard done now?" he asked a bit angrily.

Molly explained the situation.

Pause. "Well that's a bit nasty."

"Is there anyone you could call? His brother?"

Lestrade sighed. "I think I have his number somewhere..."

"Could you please tell him what's wrong?" She was getting a little desperate.

"Of course, Molly. I'll see what I can do and then I'll call you back."

"Thank you." Her voice was almost like a whisper.

"Don't mention it. He has gotten himself into far worse situations before."

"Oh... Dr-?"

"Yes." He snapped. "Sorry. I'll better call."

"Thank you."

"Like I said, don't mention it. I'll call you soon."

"Okay."

She closed her phone, sat on the sofa and waited. Five minutes later, her phone rang.

"Yes?"

"He asked you to take care of him over the night. He will be there first thing in the morning. Bloody government noses, always busy..."

"Oh okay..."

"Do you need anything?"

"No. I'll manage." She whispered, on the verge of tears.

"Are you sure, Molly?" He was concerned.

She gathered more strength and made her voice sound strong. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Hey... Molly..."

"Like I said, I'm fine." She smiled weakly to herself. "Good night, Greg."

"Good night, Molly. If you need anything..."

"...then I'll call you."

"Okay. Take care."

"You too."

She put her phone on her coffe table and went back to her bedroom, where the dark haired man was still unconscious. She couldn't hold back tears anymore and they silently poured down her cheeks.

"Oh Sherlock. What have you gotten yourself into?"

**I am so sorry, everyone. It's for the sake of the story. And just so you'd know... John is my favourite character to write.**

**Renaissancebooklover108: I considered it, but it would have ruined all my plans with this story. I'm sorry.**

**I don't know how often I'll update now that school has started. Maybe more often, maybe not. But at least I got to go to London for the first time during the summer break:):) (What the hell is wrong with your bloody traffic, londoners?! The cabbies are insane!)**

**Sooo... Anyway...:):) Thank you for reading:):) Thank you for favouriting:):) Thank you for following:):) And thank you for reviewing:):) They always make me feel good:):)**

**I would love to know what you think:)**

**Love,**

**Ave**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello there again, lovelies! As you can see I have finally changed the title of this story! *distant screams of Woohoo!* Now instead of the dull The End and The Beginning is The Multiple Destinations of One Bullet. Enjoy the chapter:) And definitely review if you want to:D I will listen and take note:)**

CHAPTER 6: YOU GET A STIFF NECK FROM SLEEPING ON A COUCH.

Sherlock was wondering in his numb mind palace, not searching for anything particular. He didn't even know what he was doing there. Everything was pitch black, so he couldn't see or feel, but walking down a familiar corridor, he didn't even need his sight.

Suddenly he noticed a dim glow from under a door. He carefully pushed it open, just to back off a few steps when a wave of heat hit him and an orange light blinded his eyes.

_What the-?_

The walls of the room were on fire. Not the things in there: a laptop, some patterned sweaters, a cane, books. Not the furniture: a comfortable armchair, shelves, pillows. Not the pictures hanging. Just the dark brown walls, that kept everything safe and in order, separated from other things.

The fire didn't stop. It spreaded as fast as light to the next room and then the next. All Sherlock could do was to stand and watch as his mind shattered. All order was gone, his knowledge scattered around, while the walls of his mind palace, created to keep him organized and safe, burned down.

He walked in the ruins, mind overflowing with random facts, that were of no use to him without their right place. He had been on the top floor of his palace, but now it didn't matter anymore. No up or down, everything reduced to it's original state, like Sherlock had never even built it. The fire had died in the places it successfully destroyed and was still glowing in the corners, where there was left what to burn.

Suddenly Sherlock's lifeless body halted to a stop. One more place that was glowing in the dying fire, the strong confines of the door having their final moments, until they were gone to ash.

The basement.

And then Sherlock could feel it. Feel the flames, the heat, the pain. He drowned in the wave of everything he had locked up in the cellar since he was a boy. He sunk down and curled in a fetal position, no chance of fighting back, as the emotions, memories and thoughts surrounded him fully, giving him no exits, making him feel all the things he had forbade himself from feeling.

Saturday: 8 a.m

Last night Molly had stayed up as long as she could to look after the man in her bedroom, who was still having a high temperature, but even she couldn't push her tiredness away for too long. So she finally fell asleep on her sofa, after grabbing an extra blanket from her closet.

In the early Saturday morning she woke up to the sound of her doorbell ringing. Molly opened her eyes with great effort and stretched her arms and shoulders, beginning to feel a slight ache in her neck.

The doorbell rung again, this time more impatiently. Molly got up from her uncomfortable sleeping place and went to the door. After she had recognized the face, she opened it and let the tall man with an umbrella walk into her tiny flat.

Molly had only seen him a couple of times and gotten the impression that he and Sherlock didn't get along very well. She had two older brothers herself, but they had always been best friends with each other. But then again Sherlock was risen in a completely different society, so much she could tell. He never spoke about his childhood and family.

Mycroft Holmes seemed very foreign in Molly's two-room flat. The soft colourful pillows, mismatching furniture and family pictures on the bookshelf full of medical books, romance and criminal novels spoke volumes about a cheerful woman, not the emotionless and posh member of the government.

Molly spent no time on unnecessary words and opened her bedroom door for Mr. Holmes and herself to see the state his brother was in. She entered her room and carefully touched the sleeping man's forehead for temperature with one hand and massaging her neck with the other. It was as hot as yesterday and he still hadn't woken up. The older Holmes didn't enter the bedroom, polite as he was not intruding a woman's privacy, but stood in the doorway, observing his sibling.

"He is exactly as I found him. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he hasn't come conscious," Molly said silently.

Mycroft nodded. "You have graduated King's College in London, am I correct, Miss Hooper?"

"Doctor Hooper," she corrected him, "and yes, yes I have."

"Very good. I'm sure you can take good care of him. It would be... unwise to take him to a hospital right now, as he is wanted for murder."

Molly's eyebrows rose and she was extremely startled. "What? What happened?"

Mycroft stepped back into the living room and waved his hand slightly as a sign to Molly to sit down on the sofa. She obliged, but were cautious of what were to come.

The man looked out of the window for a moment and then started speaking. "Last night when I was reported of my dear brother running on the streets like a madman, I took the liberty to track down Mr. Watson, so he could bring a little sense in his possessed mind. Unfortunately after locating his phone and sending my assistant to collect him, I was notified of the dreadful events that had taken place. By that time I was also contacted by DI Lestrade, who kindly let me know of my brother's whereabouts."

Molly frowned. "Dreadful events?"

Mycroft had been avoiding looking at Molly before, but now he eyed her seriously, a slight look of sadness on his usually stone cold face.

"You were a friend of Dr. Watson, correct?"

"Yes." Molly's heartbeats accelerated, fearing for the worst.

"Then it is my burden to let you know, that John Watson was found dead last night, along with the body of Helen Roylott, of whom my brother is a suspect of killing."

Molly hid her face in her hands and shook her head in denial. _It can't be! I just saw him!_

Mycroft continued: "As you are well aware of Sherlock's close relations to him, it is explainable, that he so-to-speak 'shut himself down'." Suddenly he looked older and more distressed. "It has happened once before, when he was younger. His mind works in peculiar ways, almost like a computer. Do take care of him, Dr. Hooper."

Molly's face was still hidden and she was about to break down crying, so Mycroft knew it was time for him to leave. He took out his chequebook, scribbled something in it, tore the paper out and placed it on her coffeé table, under the remote control.

After reaching the door, he turned again towards the woman, saying his final words: "Miss Mary Morstan has already been contacted and she has has decided to spend some time with her relatives in Scotland. Good day, Dr. Hooper." The tall man exited the flat silently and as soon as Molly heard the familiar click of the lock, the first tears escaped her.

Soon she was violently sobbing, her shoulders shook and she grabbed around her waist to tame the trembling.

_No... It can't be. John can't be dead._

**Thank you for reviewing, favouriting, following and reading my story. I love you.**

**Ave.**


	7. Chapter 7

**TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER!**

CHAPTER 7: A FAMILY PORTRAIT

_Siger Holmes was a well respected man, with a loving wife and two bright sons. His family lived in comfort and wealth, never missing anything. The grandness of the Holmes were known all over England. Their estate held many meetings, where famous and rich people would get together, get drunk and discuss things about their perfect lives._

_But as soon as the doors were closed behind the last guest, the children would be ushered to their bedrooms by the maids and the seemingly loving parents would go to their separate rooms. The colourful family picture with smiling faces would take its real shape._

_Siger Holmes and Violet Sherrinford met at her parents' party. The man seduced her and soon they requested a permission to marry, which they were granted without any rejections. A union of two wealthy families was the intention of their parents when they introduced them to each other anyway._

_Violet's mother had been overly happy about it, because it had been her long time wish to have beautiful grandchildren. And Siger Holmes was the best candidate for it, with is deep dark curls and high cheekbones. _

_But soon after the grandiose wedding, came clear that the couple was not infact a match made in heaven. By that time Violet was already pregnant and divorce was out of the question, since both sides of the family threatened to leave them without heritage, if they did so._

_So came to be the perfect family that was not so perfect after all. The children were to suffer the most. The boys were never allowed to have any friends, because the constant fright over kidnapping and ransom paying. They grew up alone._

_Mycroft's birth had been inevitable, but Sherlock's, ten years later, was purely unwanted, a result of a drunk night. The opportunity to blame the boy for it was never left unused. He was constantly humiliated by his parents, especially his father. Mycroft never stood up for the young one, telling Sherlock to get used to it._

_Everyone in the house knew about the affairs on both sides. Violet was able to keep them discreet, but Siger would bring home women, and some maids had sworn to see even men, almost publically._

_So the Holmes boys got used to hearing their father's low laugh together with a stranger's. They learned to ignore it._

_Mycroft, who had been five years in boarding school when Sherlock was born, spent his time studying across the country. The five year old Sherlock was alone. More than once he told something he shouldn't have, without Mycroft stopping him, because he wasn't there._

_Years of waiting for his brother to be home more than a couple of weeks, Sherlock was tired and said something especially cutting while his father was present. The man angered and took the boy to his room, where he slapped him hard across the face. Sherlock was too shocked and didn't start crying, but stared with large eyes, hand on his reddening cheek._

_Siger found that the slap wasn't enough. He wanted to see his son cry. So he grabbed his hair, pushed him on the floor with an animalistic growl and pulled off the boy's shorts._

_No one came, even though he screamed. No one came, even though he cried. No one cared that he spent the next days in bed with a fever so high he almost had permanent damage._

_During winter break, by the time Sherlock had healed, Mycroft came home. Sherlock tried to tell him what had happened, but his brother didn't believe him and said he was lying to get attention. He believed his father to be many things, but not that._

_That one day wasn't the only one. The gruesome act took place a few times when Siger Holmes had had too many drinks on his behalf. Coincidentally Violet was never home that time, but Sherlock believed that even if she had been home, she wouldn't have cared. No one asked what was wrong with him, when he couldn't walk properly and his face was beaten up._

_So he distanced himself from everyone. He found it better if he just locked all the feelings away, not having to feel the hurt all the time. He would spend most of his time reading scientific books. Nobody noticed it was not usual for a boy at his age, because there just wasn't anyone around._

_When Mycroft came home for a holiday, Sherlock had just had the most horrifying day of them all. His eye was purple, his lip gashed and he stood wrongly, when he met his brother._

_Only then Mycroft believed him. He took Sherlock away to an acquaintance and sorted things out. Sherlock never met his father again. And he was glad._

_The next year he went to school and immediately discovered that he didn't enjoy it there. But it was better than home. He was bullied, but never violated as his father did._

Saturday: 4 p.m.

Molly was tired. She had never felt so alone in her life, although he wasn't the only one in the flat. She had been crying too much and her body was drained.

Lestrade had come over, but he had to leave soon, because he still had work to do concerning the case. Molly was sure he had shed some tears, when she saw his puffy red eyes. But she was also sure she looked a lot worse.

Sherlock hadn't woken up, but during some point, he had twitched. Molly tried to concentrate on him and did as best as she could. She changed the towel on his forehead constantly.

Around two o' clock she had found a bag of his clothes behind the door. No doubt it was Mycroft's doing. Remaining a complete professional, Molly changed Sherlock out of his dress pants and ripped shirt. She refrained from watching as much as possible. She put him in a grey T-shirt and blue pajamas bottoms, just so that he would be more comfortable, as it was the least she could do in this situation.

She measured his temperature again. It was the same and he showed no signs of doing any better than before.


End file.
